ten heard him talk in his dreams, draw his breath so heavily, as
though something were distressing him. Then she would slip out of bed,
softly, softly, so that her husband should not hear her; she did not
light any candle, she groped her way into the other room on bare feet.
And then she would stand at his bedside. He still had the pretty railed
cot from his first boyhood--but how long would it be before it was too
small? How quickly he was growing, how terribly quickly. She passed her
hand cautiously and lightly over the cover, and felt the boy's long
body underneath it. Then he began to toss about, groan, stiffen himself
like one who is struggling with something. What could be the matter
with him? Then he spoke indistinctly. Of what was he dreaming so
vividly? He was wet through with perspiration.

If only she could see him. But she dared not light a candle. What
should she say to her husband if he, awakened by the light, asked her
what she was doing there? And Woelfchen would also wake and ask her what
she wanted.

Yes, what did she really want? She had no answer ready even for
herself. She would only have liked to know what was occupying his mind
in his dream to such an extent that he sighed and struggled. Of what
was he dreaming? Of whom? Where was he in his dream?

She trembled as she stood at his bedside on her bare feet listening.
And then she bent over him so closely that his breath, uneven and hot,
blew into her face, and she breathed on him again--did not they mingle
their breath in that manner? Was she not giving him breath of her
breath in that manner?--and whispered softly and yet so earnestly,
imploringly and at the same time urgently: "Your mother is here, your
mother is near you."

But he threw himself over to the other side with a jerk, turned his
back on her and mumbled something. Nothing but incomprehensible words,
rarely anything that was distinct, but even that was enough; she felt
he was not there, not with her, that he was far away. Did his soul seek
the home he did not know in his dreams? that he could not even know
about, and that still had such a powerful influence that it drew him
there even unconsciously?

Kate stood at Wolfgang's bedside tortured by such an anxiety as she
had never felt before: a mother and still not mother. Alas, she was
only a strange woman at the bedside of a strange child.

She crept back to her bed and buried her throbbing brows deep in the
pillows. She felt her